It's Time for Keyword Fun! (a.k.a - Girl With Gun)

As regular readers know, I'm fascinated with the search terms that draw people to my blog.  About once a month I go in and see the craziness and then report it here.  As always, Regan Reese is still one of the big attractions.  That is not odd, however.  "California Naget Fucking Vidio 2010" is.

I don't know what the hell a California Naget Fucking Vidio 2010 is, or how it would even make my blog come up on a search, but a few people found it that way.  Perhaps it was one friend calling another.  "Hey, I Googled some shit today.  California Naget Fucking Vidio 2010 was what I was looking for, and I came to this weird blog thing.  Just enter that in and you'll get there.  No.  I don't know what the hell a Naget is."  If any of you readers have a clue, fill me in please.

Less surprising is the search for "photos of amazon cannibalists."  "Cannibalists" is an odd term, but since I write about cannibalism enough, it's no surprise that a search for that would bring people here.  If any of you are women looking into cannibalism -- I want your numbers.

"Girl With Gun" brought quite a few lookers, too.  I often use images of females packing heat, so I'm not shocked.  I find it sexy.  Who wouldn't?  Cowards, that's who.

After that came another puzzler.  "Insane asylum ideas."  Really?  Here's what I picture: Some unemployed, clueless guy is sitting at home trying desperately to come up with an idea to make rent.  He thinks, "You know what?  There aren't enough insane asylums around.  I think I'll open one.  Now, how do I go about doing that?"  Boom.  Welcome to the Zeitgeist, you budding entrepreneur.  If your insane asylum idea tanks, how about an orphanage?  We don't have many of those, either.

And finally we have "Japanese hookers."  People looking for hookers often end up at my blog.  My guess is they leave pretty disappointed.  I have no hookers here, let alone the prized Japanese ones.  Now that Craig's List can't advertise these services, I suppose more and more people will end up here looking for a $20 hummer.  I hate to disappoint, so if any hookers want to advertise, I'll run your ads for a small fee.  I'll run a special for the next month for all hookers of the Japanese persuasion.  Just contact me for rates.  (By now I know some of you are wondering if I'm joking or not.  Hell, I think I would run them.  I could use the extra income with the holidays coming, and if people are coming here looking for it ...)

Sticking with the theme of whores, my mail-in ballot should have reached its destination today.  I can't remember how many "No confidence" write-in votes I cast, but it was a rather large number.  As always, I voted on the local measures and state propositions.  Today I got a slew of calls from the Republican party (proud member for years just to fuck shit up) urging me to vote, vote, vote (or at least stomp a Move On groupie).  It's tiring, really.  At the post office today, though, I ran into the best example I think I could possibly find of a Meg Whitman supporter.

There was a big SUV parked in front of the post office.  The first thing I noticed was the woman with the three large boxes trying to close the SUV's doors.  Then I saw the Whitman sticker, gently placed on the vehicle's rear window, almost as if it were some agency parking permit.

The woman got into the post office before me.  As soon as I entered I could tell she was pissed.  "Why is this closed?"

I didn't think she was talking to me until she said it again, and I could tell it was said in my direction.  Keep in mind, I am not a postal employee, and nor did I look like one with my black cargo pants, black hooded sweatshirt (I don't call them hoodies because I'm not fucking twelve), sleeves rolled up and tattoos exposed and septum piercing down.

"Why is this closed?"

"It's after five," I answered, not that I needed to.

She let out a loud sigh.  I imagine she wanted me to know how upset she was.  I could tell.  The bitch aura was coming off her in nausea-inducing waves.  "Well what time is it?"

Time to kick you in the teeth.  "It's almost five thirty."

Another loud sigh.  I get it, Lady.  You've got three huge boxes that had to be there yesterday.  You knew about it for weeks, though, but you fell behind.  You had things to do.  Now that you got your shit together and lugged these things into the post office, you think someone should be there to serve you.  No matter that you waited for weeks or have a lousy sense of time.  You demand service.

I'm sure your husband is a happy guy.

"I need to send these out."
   
I did not respond, but I did slow down my recycling efforts.  I was disposing of sales fliers and all my Republican party endorsements that they spent good money sending to me.  This was getting good.

The woman looked around, almost as if she were searching for some secret door so that she could get into the back room.  "I think I hear people back there."  She was starting to calm down.

And then, cryptically, she said, "This is why people use e-mail."

I looked at her boxes and said, "Yeah, that's how I send all my packages."

Oh my God, she wanted to kill me.  Or at least that's what this Whitman supporter's stare said.  Instead of castrating me and then choking me to death with my dismembered member, she broke out her cell phone and contacted someone.  I didn't stick around.  I was already running late.  I'll admit that I was really tempted to go back in and say that I saw her Meg Whitman sticker and that I was a really big fan of Meg's father, Walt, but I was pretty sure she'd fucking explode.

So, Super Bitchy Meg Whitman Supporter, if you ended up here because you were lookin' for Japanese hookers or a California Naget Fucking Vidio 2010, I bid you welcome.  You're kind of famous now.  Just be thankful I didn't have a phone capable of video or I would've put your little tantrum all over Youtube.

  

A Sweet, Bloody Kiss

I completed my mail-in California ballot tonight, happily filling in little boxes next to names and propositions, doing my best to chart my state's uncertain future.

As per usual, the choices for candidates left me unexcited.  California has its typical status quo flunkies all proclaiming they aren't status quo, and the outsider fringe nut cases whose chances of winning are even less than the proverbial snowball's chance of surviving Hell.  And then there are the propositions.

Prop. 19 (decriminalization of pot) is the one that has the news media abuzz.  This is not some local CA hype, either.  The coverage is worldwide.  We are still fucking around in Iraq and Afghanistan, our state's budget is another smoke and mirrors magic show that stunned citizens last year, the country's economy is less-than-stellar, and all the news wants to report about is the Tea Party and people being able to get stoned legally in California. 

This proposition came up again at the post office when I ran into a woman I know kind of casually.  She's got this great devil woman tattoo on her back that was done in Las Vegas.  She wanted to know if I was happy it was finally on the ballot (I've been writing about the decriminalization of pot for years, and she's read my stuff).

"I'm happy about it," I said, "but kind of disappointed that this seems to be the only talking point."

"I'm sick of it already," she said.  "There's got to be something else to focus on."

And that hit it on the head.  There are plenty of other issues to focus on, but if you got people talking about Prop. 19 you can avoid discussion on these other unpleasant things.  (Besides having great tattoos and being intelligent, she also knows what Re/Search is, which gives her a huge plus in my book.)  Distract the public with pot, and they can think that's the most important issue facing their neighbors.  Forget the economy.  Forget the war.  Forget the fact that California (and the rest of the country) is up for not only redistricting, but how it is to be redistricted.  Forget all that.  Let's talk about legally being able to possess Trainwreck.

I told Devil Girl that I was happy it got on the ballot and had a good chance of passing, but was also disappointed that at the end of the day the more important stories were taking a back seat to Kush and company.  She agreed (told you she was smart), but said that this was at least a positive step in the right direction.

Agreed ... but I really wish the media would focus on some other stories like the voter intimidation that is threatening to disrupt polling places, or even the overcrowded prisons.  There are other issues out there.  Not all of us are too stoned to notice.

Newcastle by Way of Baimbridge -- Random Stuff

The past two days have been a flurry of friends who were never very political in the past asking me to vote either yes or no on Proposition 19, which would decriminalize pot in California.  I think I've written on this enough here and in other places that most people would know my general stance on it.  I haven't read all the details yet, but as of now my opinion hasn't changed.  I think Bill Maher hit it on the head that this is the wedge issue Democrats can use.  Strange how it's this that gets people to the polls and not something more important like war or other economic issues.

On that note, more people have talked to me about the legalization of pot than they have over the governor's race, which is something I also find strange.  It seems inevitable to me that pot will eventually become legalized.  If not this election, soon.  It just makes common sense.  Sort of like gay marriage.  The governor's race is less inevitable, and probably far more important.  Neither candidate is ideal, but this is one time you can plainly see the value in voting for one of the lesser of two evils (other candidates don't stand a chance in this race).  Normally I'm against doing such a thing, but here it is so apparent what the outcome of each candidate's policy could be that it seems like this would galvanize people moreso than weed legislation.  Maybe the governor's race is too boring or something.  Perhaps they can discuss it on the unemployment lines.

With such a huge push to stop illegal immigration, I'd love to see the Native Americans get involved in it.  Only, instead of using the slightly scary faces of leering Mexican males, they use white Wall Street types.  That would amuse me to no end.


I think the Tea Party has a good idea in tapping into people's ill-conceived fears and then making them turn against their own self-interests.  At some point a few breakaways will open their eyes.  I just hope it's not too late, but knowing history, it probably will be.  By the way, has anyone seen that witch's birth certificate?

The Woods Hold Secrets Twisted and True

While trying to score a new writing gig this weekend, I shared my manuscript idea with another writer (not worried about the idea getting ripped off), and was told I had a way with conveying pain that would probably pay off big-time for me with this one.  That made me pretty darn happy.  Whether or not it will help me secure the writing gig is debatable.  I have a reputation of making deadlines and being honest.  The deadline part is great.  The honesty part sometimes gets me in trouble.  I also don't mind telling an editor I can't do something due to time constraints or whatnot.  Most editors are good with that.  Some editors, like the one that was at our local newspaper, Times-Standard, a few years back, are not so hot when it comes to honesty.

A few years ago I was approached by our local newspaper to cover the all-important jazz festival.  I was working a "regular" job at the time and writing for many publications, including being a regular contributor to Tattoo Savage.  I wanted to get some local stuff under my belt, and while the jazz festival was not my first choice, I wanted to know more about it.  The editor told me I'd be interviewing the acts and doing a general write-up.  We came to the idea that it would be about 14 hours worth of work, which sent money signs spinning through my head.  If this were Savage, I'd be making about $1120.  I didn't expect the Times-Standard to pay quite as much (it wasn't a glossy international publication after all), but I didn't expect to be so insulted by the $25 check they were tossing my way. 

I, of course, explained why there was no way I was doing that.  The editor countered that it would be a way to see my name in print.  I re-countered with the fact that my name was in print all over the place thanks to things like Easy Rider, Savage and a host of other publications and books.  The editor explained that $25 was all the paper could pay its stringers, which I understood and explained it as such.  Again, I was told I could see my name in print.  I was polite when I said, "Give it to someone who needs that.  I already got that under my belt."  (Or some such words.)  Needless to say, the editor ended the call pretty abruptly after proclaiming that she (I think it was a she for the A&E section at the time) couldn't understand why I wouldn't want my name in print.  It was years before I heard from the paper again.

I'll write for free if I believe in the project.  I'll write for little pay, too.  I won't write to get my name in print, and I won't work my ass off on a piece I don't care about for a corporate entity for crumbs.  It just won't happen.  My time with Savage ended in part due to my honesty.  It's cost me many a gig.  But at least I can sleep at night.

The Delusional Suicides of American Citizens

Awe inspiring. That's what comes to mind when I think of the Tea Party. As I start this post, NBC has reported on its own poll that shows Republicans are set for some major wins. Tea Party candidates (angry gnats swarming without a destination) are looking to get new taxpayer funded jobs. Democrats are to be looking for new ones. None of this is really surprising ... well, except for the fact that Tea Party candidates and party members (show us your bags!) don't make a lick of sense.

"I'm not a witch ...." It's a refrain that's been echoed time and time again. You hear this more than anything logical about this party. How can a party that opposes government spending being looking for taxpayer funded jobs? How can people opposed to government handouts be on Medicare? How can a party opposed to bailouts and welfare (I'm assuming this is both social and corporate -- it's rarely stated) shop at large corporations like Walmart? It's easy when you realize that rational thinking is verboten in the party line.

This rather large group of primarily white people borders on insane. Rarely have I seen such a large group of people support something that goes against their own self-interests. John Stewart and company can poke fun at it all they want (and the do), but if this group of people is that easily led astray by people not even in power, what will they do if they get power?

I'm all for being opposed to big government and restrictive laws. I'm also for common sense, something as lacking as books in the home of the average Tea Party member. These angry citizens, who are adamant about their anger but less so about reality, have some valid points, but their hypocrisy sells them out to anyone willing to spend five minutes examining what they are saying.

I've written about this time and time again (even so far as to point out some of Humboldt's Tea Party parrots taking of public funds for their own business). I know I may be preaching to some of the converted, but I also know a Google search can send some of those people this way, so if you are one of those Tea Party people, I'd like to hear what you have to say. Tell me where I've gone wrong here. Honestly, I'm so stunned by the downright stupidity I see that I'm tempted to take on of your poorly spelled signs and beating some sense into you with it.

Your most public spokesperson may not be a witch, but she, like many others in your fold, is an idiot, and that becomes more apparent every time she opens her mouth. Why do you think she refuses interviews?

Bush was dangerous, but I never got the idea that he thought he had all the answers, and he never seemed to act against his own self-interests. I fear what would happen if a Tea Party parrot got into the White House because there is nothing worse than someone who feels they have all the answers ... especially the ones that go against their own value system and yet they don't realize it. That spells danger any way you look at it.

Meg Whitman IS a Whore

If you are following politics at all, you know that the Tea Party candidates (the most confused political party on the planet) are taking over, and that an aide on the Jerry Brown campaign was caught on tape calling his opponent in the race for governor a "whore."  Jerry Brown apologized, but he shouldn't have.  She is a whore. 

Now, the term "whore" has a couple uses, which anyone but Whitman and possibly Tea Party candidates understand.  The most typical definition is a man or woman who sells sexual favors for money or some other kind of compensation (crack, hamburgers, Hummels).  It also means a "venal" person.  "Venal" means you are capable of being bought for money, or that you can be bribed.  (Get your CA governor's race shirts here. Look, I'm whoring!)

By that definition, both Brown and Whitman are whores.  They are politicians, afterall, but Brown called it first, and he was right.  Whitman, quick to spin whatever she can, made it into a form of hate speech against women, which is insulting to women, prostitutes and California's voters.  Unless, of course, Whitman is a whore in the traditional sense.  Then I could see her getting upset.

(I love porn, but I don't think I'd like to see Whitman involved in any sexual act.  That said, if anyone out there has real footage of Whitman involved in giving sexual favors [oral, anal, vaginal, whatever] for money, I will leak those here and to the media and keep your identity secret.  I do have media contacts, and I am known for keeping people's identities secret.  So ... let's see it if you got it.)

Whitman's whore status is well-known.  She's sold out her ideals for an endorsement, and that was exactly what Brown's aide was commenting on.  The fact was that Brown should not have apologized, but should have defended himself and told people in that debate moderated by Tom Brokaw just why his aide called her that.  Those same arguments can be used against him, but when he throws the first stone he puts his opponent on the defense.  Instead, because American society has a hard time with dealing with such honesty, he has to back down and apologize.  (And a big "fuck you" to Brokaw for insinuating that "whore" is as offensive to women as the "n word" is to African Americans.  First of all, if whore was as offensive, he would have had to call it the "w word," as he did for the "n word."  [Typing the "n word" feels silly to type, but I need to in order to prove the point.]  So, therefore, by his own question he proves the word is not as powerful.  The word Brokaw is really thinking of is "cunt."  That is closer to the "n word," as he puts it.  Even then, however, I don't think there were ever water fountains that had signs on them reading, "Cunts only."  What a way to skew a question, Brokaw.)

I get that your standard, ignorant voter is going to be upset about the term "whore."  That person's reality is not reality, however.  She is a whore.  She sells out her values.  She sells out California residents.  That's not even all that important, however.  The fact that she has no solid plans, and the plans she does have are more harmful to CA's citizens than what we have now is the real issue.  Name calling, as accurate as it may be, can be a great way to cut to the issues, but Brown missed the opportunity here.  He should have pushed it.  I would've.  I would've said, "Well, Meg is a whore.  She tells the citizens of this fine state that she's fighting for their interests, but then takes the side of special interest for its endorsement.  That's a whore.  She sells herself out and her voters, and she does it to get more votes.  That's a whore."

That kind of honesty, however, doesn't make itself known too often in our society.  It's a shame, too.  Maybe if it did we wouldn't have to even play around with the idea that the "w word" is even close to the "n word."  And I wouldn't have to write such nonsense.

Whitman and Brown -- not only are you both whores of the worst sort, but you're also liars and thieves.  Brokaw -- you're just a fucking asshole.  Always have been and always will be, and I'll defend all of those statements without apology in any public forum any day.

We Need Blood Donors

Tuesday morning greets the Earth with the shaking hands of a drug addict and the smile of a pedophile.  Its tongue, with pushes forth from a cavern that vaguely smells of roast beef and coffee, laps at our faces, reminding us it is here.  A proper response to such a situation would be to reach for the knife and plunge it into the beast's neck and give it a good twist for measure.

Instead, we greet it with pleasure.  Some would say, "One more day down.  Tomorrow is Hump Day."  Those people, it should be noted for the record, should be shot.

I like cutting away the worries.  Letting them fall to the side like toenail clippings nobody will bother to pick up.  I'm not always successful, but I am getting better. 

I'm reading 2/15: The Day the World Said NO to War.  I wonder if the protests were deeply satisfying or ultimately depressing when one saw how little they changed things.

War is something worth speaking about.  Hump Day is not.

I was asked last night, in a text (of course), why I don't post on Facebook much anymore.  My answer was short, as they tend to be with texts.  I don't want to waste time. My time.  My friend's time.  It doesn't matter.  I still post some stuff because I like it better than sending a mass e-mail, and my blog postings get up there, as well as other things.  I don't want to spend time with the rest of the nonsense.

(Sadly, I can't play poker on there anymore, though that may be more of a relief.)

Happy day before Hump Day.  Let that beast hump away, but make sure you smile.

Open That Mouth

I've got this friend who is very into the whole B&D,  S&M scene.  She takes it very seriously (though she constantly uses the word "play" when she talks about it).  She does most of her "play" out of the area because the people here are "emotional manipulators" who spread lies the same way they spread disease ... or so she says.  She called me today, knowing it was a holiday for me and that I had a little free time before I had to do a few things.  She wanted to get some names off me for contacts on trip she was making, and then she wanted to know about the lost manuscript.

When I told her I was rewriting it and it was going to be worse, she hit the fucking roof.  She wasn't happy with it in the first place, fearful that I was taking the sex and violence mix and somehow linking it to S&M and B&D and thus destroying the sanctity of her scene.  (A conversation I had with her a few months ago actually inspired a conversation in the original manuscript, which I will be using again.)  Try as I might, I can't get her to understand that it isn't a novel about B&D or S&M.  Yes, it mixes sex and violence, and yes it has elements of bondage, domination and the like, but that is not the story's backbone.


"You're just going to be another person giving what I enjoy a bad name." 


Oh, I wish I was that powerful.


I told her I really didn't expect that to happen, and nor did I care if it did.  And while she wasn't thrilled to hear that, I likened her to the lesbians who got angry over Basic Instinct.  I'm telling a story.  I don't care who I piss off.  I am serving the story.  If I had to make boy scouts into Satan worshipping pedophiles for the sake of the story, I would do it.  That she could understand.  She was still worried that someone would think people in her scene would be accepting of the behavior I was portraying. 


I told her to wait to read the finished product before formulating an opinion.  I told her I have had several people read chunks of the first draft (before it got lost in the nether), and none of them had any problems with it (and I went with people from all walks of life).  She then asked, "If I had a problem with it, would you change it?"


Hell no.


Rob Zombie told his actors on the set of The Devil's Rejects that art isn't safe.  The director of Battle Royale, a movie where the Japanese government sets children up to kill each other on an island, wanted Japanese kids to see it so that they wouldn't trust authority.  Gaspar Noe uses sound and cinematography to induce sickness in his readers.  Jack Ketchum, author of The Girl Next Door wanted that novel to be so horrible that every page was like a punch in the stomach, but one the reader was willing to take because he couldn't turn away.  GG Allin attacked the people who came to his shows. 


If you are creating something you want to be powerful, no matter the genre or the medium, you can't pull any punches yourself.  You can't worry about what others think or say.  You can't worry about who you may offend.  If you take those things into consideration, you've lost before you've even begun.


She didn't like that.  Not one bit.  But she kind of understood.  Then she said the topper (and this is why our previous conversation inspired a similar conversation in the first draft).  "I just think you shouldn't put sex and violence together if you are going to push it that far."


"And that," I replied, "is why you are going to Denver to 'play.'"


The conversation ended on a good note, and I was out the door.  I'm sure she'll hate the thing once it's finished.  I'm okay with that, though.  This manuscript is not going to be everyone's cup o' tea.  It is necessary, though.  If I didn't get this manuscript written, I'd have these ideas floating around in my head with no hope of release ... and I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

My Empire of Dirt

My friend returns from overseas this week (I miss the conversations, and had a really strange dream involving her last night, which I think was my mind somehow trying to replicate the conversations) and will soon be picking up her cat.  I also talked to an old co-worker whom I became closer to out of tragedy.  She told me she may be coming up here later this year, and that made me extremely happy.  At the same time, this morning found me listening to Nine Inch Nails as I tried to drag my ass out of bed.  "Hurt."  I liked the song before.  Today I understood it.

Maybe it was the dream.  Maybe it was the phone call while I was in Target.  Maybe it was all the thinking I did last night, forcing myself to get real honest with myself.  Honest to the point of brutality.  Honest to the point of fear. 

Everyone is leaving.  Dropping away like flies.  I find it harder and harder to have conversations with people about anything other than cursory observations that could be from the back of a cereal box.  Granted, there are exceptions (aforementioned co-worker, Samurai, Mirror, Liz Lemon, Dark One and a few others whose nicknames can't be uttered in polite company), and they are great exceptions, but most of them are making their exits.  There will be no more knowing glances across the table.  No more moments of sanity in the insanity tornado. 

I understand that.  I respect that.  I fear it.  I hold no illusions.  I know where all this eventually leads to.  Seul contre tous.  I've carved my future into my flesh.  I wrote sentences for things that have yet to happen.  I have reacted to a catalyst that has yet to be put in motion.  I don't pretend that it made me wiser, but I know that it made me cautious.

... and the rain kept coming down.  It was warm.  We sat in an alcove at a table.  There was wine.  We were drenched.  We didn't care.  "What does all this mean?" I asked.  The reply came quietly.  Barely a whisper.  Just a few words.  I finished my glass of wine.  Stood up to leave.  "You coming?  Our work here is done."  The rain wouldn't let up.     She finishes her glass of wine.  Uses a napkin to dab at her face almost as if she's afraid of it.  We had been talking for a while.  I give her my hand, help pull her to her feet.  "We'll figure all this out."  The streets give off a dazzling display of light from the neon coming off Tokyo's buildings -- the neon reflected in the rain.  The walk is without conversation for a few blocks.  When it comes, it's in bursts.  Short statics on a radio that keeps going out of tune.  Lots of explanations.  Answers I don't want to hear.  And the rain kept coming down ...

Seul contre tous.

What if I'm wrong?

You Got That Live Slaughter On Tape ...

Almost one a.m. and my mind refuses to shut down.  Tired as hell.  Tried watching Serenity but was having a hard time getting into it.  Will try again later ... maybe.  In the background, the 1980 "classic" Don't Answer the Phone! plays.  It, too, fails to hold my attention.  2/15: The Day the World Said No to War begs to be read, but I can't do it.  Was going to send a long e-mail off to Thailand.  Went to hit "send," re-read it and deleted it.  Had a good night of conversation, which was made hard by SF Giants fans who forgot to leave their outdoor voices outdoors.  Fans of SF sports teams are always a bit of a mystery to me.  Nice enough one on one, but taken as a group and it's like a herpes sore on the face of a model: obnoxious and strangely colored.

Mirror and I joked about Fresno earlier.  In the movie that's playing in the background a detective jokes about a rapist/strangler (Lou Dobbs, perhaps?) hiding out in Fresno.  Been to Fresno once.  Saw Guttermouth and the Offspring.  Went to a taco truck that served brain tacos.  Beyond gross.  Everyone knows: Don't eat the brains.

For weeks I've had one lyric running through my head.  Infinite loop.  It's from Black Flag's "The Bars."  "I want out right now."  Seems like a good game plan.  Seems like a way to keep my sanity in a place full of stuff gone haywire. I want out right now.  Oh yeah, baby.  Slam the door and don't look back.  You know those faces are watching from the windows.  Expectant faces.  Hopeful faces.  Faces that don't mask a soul because there's no soul to mask.  You give them the finger, but you don't look back.  You won't let yourself be a pillar of salt. 

Mind is starting to wander.  Can't even concentrate on this.  Can't decide if that's bad or good.  Back is on fire.  Gotta get up early to write and take in the soccer game.  Maybe grab a bite.  Bury the bodies before the dogs eat them. 

Yawns are getting deeper.  Eyelids still fighting gravity.  Tongue feels like it's made of dryer lint.  Limbs are fairly compliant.  I won't sleep in my bed tonight.  It'll kill my back, but I can't bring myself to move.  By the time I wake up the computer battery will be dead, and my head will be throbbing, as it has been every morning this week.

Enough.

One More Reason to Hate People

People have been getting on my nerves quite a bit lately.  If it isn't their comments and opinions on my personal economics and parenting, it's an incorrect knowledge of my free time.  (Best quote, "You have time to take me to Oregon."  Oh, the teeth I wanted to remove due to that selfish statement.)  One more thing is added to the list: Facebook.

I'm used to the fact that no matter what I write in e-mails and texts, some people are going to read their own tone into it.  It's happened enough with so many different people that I have grown very cautious and approach most e-mails and texts with kid gloves with the exception of a small group of people who have never taken that route.  Yesterday, however, took the cake.

The woman (and it always seems to be a woman who has these issues -- I cannot explain that, but no guy has ever told me a text has made him cry) asked, "Do you hate me?  You never post on my wall."  At first I had no idea what the hell she was talking about and said so.  She explained, "You comment on everyone's Facebook wall but mine."  Wow.  Insecurity.  Delusional.

First I had to point out that I don't post on "everyone's" wall as that would take up far too much time in my day and I can't see any reason to do that.  Then I informed her that a lack of posting on one's wall should in no way be construed as a barometer of my feelings toward her (which chilled at the point she got pouty about the lack of postings).  I then asked, as I often do in these situations, how I could fix this so she wouldn't feel like I hated her because of my lack of postings on her Facebook page.  I asked how many postings it would take and what the said postings should include.  As is usual, I got no real answer.  Instead of answering, she said, "I don't know.  I just think you hate me."

At that point I pretty much exploded and, in a burst of wisdom found only in the insane, said, "I do hate you.  You're so filled with self-doubt that you somehow twist a lack of Facebook postings into a personal evaluation of our friendship.  What's not to hate about that?  If you are going to use that to judge this friendship, thenＩcan only have contempt for you.  If you base a friendship on something as petty as Facebook postings, you don't deserve anything but scorn."

Silence.  And then ... laughter.  Amazingly, she understood exactly what I was saying.  I was fucking stunned.  She apologized, told me to write about this (hi!), and then asked if we could hang out after I get caught up on the manuscript and get the Littler interview done. 

"Perhaps," I said.  I rarely make promises these days because of time constraints and just a general desire to stay away from people when I'm feeling like this because it leads to outbursts like the one above.

"Cool.  No worries."

And that is how these things should go.  But they don't.  I've ironed out most issues with most people, but there are still a few dangling ones.  People often mistake their view of the world for being everyone's view of the world.  If I did that, I would assume most people are angry all the time and despise their fellow humans.  However, I know that is not the case.  I don't place my opinions on others because they are my opinions.  I don't place my insecurities on others because they are my insecurities. 

Before my conversation ended with Facebook Girl, as I should call her from now on, she asked a great question.  "Do you think we -- as a society -- have lost the ability to communicate?  I mean, we have Twitter and Facebook, texting and e-mails, but those are flawed and aren't meant to be replacements for conversation.  Have we lost that?"

(And that is why I remain friends with her because even though she does far too much of that transferring of emotions, she does knock it out of the park sometimes.)

"Definitely.  Twitter and Facebook is nothing more than public masturbation.  E-mails and texts are just teenage foreplay.  Conversation, however, is like great sex with someone who can read your mind."

And that is one reason to actually enjoy people ... despite their often juvenile ways.

Wonder Woman Needs Your Help!

Earlier this year Film Threat ran my interview with Jennifer Wenger.  I sought her out after watching Confessions of a Superhero, an incredible documentary about the people who dress up as superheroes in Hollywood.  Wenger, as I stated at the beginning of the piece, was the stand out.  Not only was she drop-dead gorgeous and smart, but she also had the best story of the bunch.  That film is not all she's done, either.  She's been in My Name is Earl and True Blood to name two. 

Sunday, while shopping with my daughter, my cell phone goes off.  I don't get to it in time, but the message was a surprise.  It was Jennifer, giving me a call about some exciting news.  She sounds super thrilled, so I text to her to find out what is going on (I don't like making calls when I'm with my daughter).

Jennifer has found what could be the role she was made for.  David E. Kelley, you know him from fifteen thousand different TV shows, is doing a Wonder Woman TV show (rumored, Jennifer tells me, to be in the classic costume) and Jennifer is making a push to get the role.  She played it in Hollywood.  She freakin' looks like Wonder Woman.  She's got talent to match her looks.  This seems like a slam dunk.

But nothing is a sure deal in the land of plastic surgery disasters.  That's why I'm writing about it here.  I'm trying to drum up support.  Yes, there is a Facebook page.  Yes, people are responding favorably.  I would ask that if you think she's the one for the role, you make your voice heard, too.

And then, when you're done, check out Confessions of a Superhero so you can see what I saw in her.  It's a great movie on it's own, but she sends it over the top.

Jennifer Wenger is Wonder Woman.  If she doesn't get the role, I won't watch the show.  Period.  And I may be forced to beat up Kelley if I ever meet him.

Monday Mourning

Got a great call and series of texts last night that I'll go into more detail on here in the next few days.  It has no real affect on me other than being happy for someone.  That's a fairly alien feeling, so I'll relish it while it's here.

According to the news the US is warning its citizens traveling to Europe to be "cautious."  Nothing specific.  Just be careful.  It's kind of like what your mom says to you every time you tell her you are doing something.

Terrorism is, of course, a problem, but I'm actually a bit more concerned about my own government.  That's just me, though.

Oh boy.  Apparently $69 million of CA state welfare money is spent outside the state in places like Las Vegas and Hawaii.  This report comes from the California Department of Social Services.  An election year.  A state in a budget crisis.  "Welfare moms" spending your tax dollars at places you, a "hard working" guy, can't afford to take your family to (like Guam).  If you don't see where this is going, you haven't been paying attention to ... anything ... ever.

(Of course, whomever released this report also sees the writing on the wall and has stated that budget cuts have hindered the agency's investigation.  "We want your money!")

Man, this is not going to be good, and I can already see the political ads.  "Meg Whitman will cut welfare money, which is being spent at strip clubs in Las Vegas.  This money will be diverted to the wealthy so they can hire illegal immigrants to clean their toilets.  Jerry Brown wants to give them more money and drive them to the clubs."

On a related note, the budget for California will be announced today.  Writing, meet wall.  Wall, meet citizen -- head-on at 90 mph.

Happy Monday, hard-working, coke-addicted, plastic surgery disasters known as Californians. 

Friday at the Horror Show

Up at 4:30.  That's the a.m. for all you time challenged folk.  Quick shower.  Quick feeding of the animals.  Several cups of Muddy Waters Crossroads coffee (the symbolism surely not lost on many of you).  The manuscript.  Something so liberating about creating the lives of characters that had only previously existed in your head (and in a now lost manuscript and e-mail excerpts sent to some people) and who will meet a fate worse than death.  Even more gratifying when there are so many people pissing me off in the real world.  This "therapy" keeps me from gutting them where they stand. 

Most of my free time as of late has been taken up with reworking the manuscript and getting stuff together to sell either in a mass eBay exodus or yard sale, and since we are hitting the wet season in Humboldt, eBay looks better.  I'll get better sales there, too, as Humboldt residents are notoriously weak or would rather trade pot for CDs and movies.  The manuscript, however, has been far more pleasurable.

The second best month of the year is here.  October.  Things start dying.  If only some people went the way of leaves.  Turning pretty colors and then dropping to the ground to be raked up and burned in barrels rusted by nature's tears.  I know the smell of burning flesh is far worse than that of leaves, but I do think you can eventually get used to it.  It would be the thinning of the herd this planet so desperately needs. 

Enjoy.